out the clear
by asportscommercial
Summary: In which he willingly goes back to high school in the name of science. (Fallout: NV's Old World Blues-centric).


It's probably not his fault that he can still recount vivid memories detailing his high school past, but to this end, it somehow feels like he's being punished for these recollections.

If anything, it should be Mobius' blatant disregard for their revered Sciences that ended up damaging their memory drives that should be tried for justice; but the old bat's too far deep into Mentats and Psycho to even recall two steps behind him.

The rest can remember the thousands of years that date back to the precipice of the world's nuclear devastation; they can recall days when they'd achieved scientific breakthrough, when intruders had infiltrated the institution and wreaked havoc, then down to the most trivial of things, like daily maintenance checks and cleaning up the dust that'd mustered in some dingy corner of the Dome. But farther back, to when they'd once operated meat sacks and had spoken with their own vocal chords rather than rickety voice modules? That's where images become blurry.

They can remember a few, small tidbits from their previous lives. Scents, scenes, stories; nothing groundbreaking, but they can mostly visualize them.

Klein can reminisce patrolling rows of work stations, and a clipboard where he'd scribble down tattles on staff and personal rants (he can also recall moments he spent with Mobius where he wasn't proving the latter wrong in an argument; he can't depict it clearly, but their interactions were... decidedly amiable, so Klein will forever keep it to himself.)

Dala can remember some vividly because her sensory assist circuits remind her daily; the raunchy and sweet smells of scented candles she keeps atop her cabinets and nightstands back when she had the hands to light them, and how silk feels against her once human skin. She remembers viewing upon bare human bodies without the malicious intent of lobotomizing and dissecting them; remembers how her passion used to manifest into something else rather than an obsession to study, but she can no longer recall what it used to be.

8's story is tragic, because other than remembering that he used to be able to strum the guitar delicately with his hands (he tells them that he remembers multiple callouses upon the skin) and being able to fluctuate his previously un-garbled voice into sounding pretty, he falls silent of his RobCo termlink transmissions when asked for in-depth background. But at least he knows his previous name, credit to Mobius for discovering it on an abandoned terminal whilst he'd been roaming. Only 8 knows his Old World name, and that's memory enough.

Doctor 0's memories are perhaps the most well-known amongst the Big Mountain executives; he can never stop yammering about what little he remembers, from dismantling his first television to putting together a functioning laser rifle in the fourth grade. He remembers in tiny pieces, shards of a bigger picture. Small scenes from animated television shows, and certain moments from horror movies, to pages of a comic book; miscellaneous and irrelevant, but he can remember approximately two aspects of his actual background as a meat bag: he thinks that he used to attend American High, and that he'd used to know Borous (he also can recall moments where he interacted with what is definitely 8, many moments, in fact, but he doesn't know whether they were still breathing with lungs in those moments or not, so he remained shut-up.)

And finally, it's Borous' blessing (or curse?) to be able to evoke lucid experiences from his particularly torturous high school days. 'Betsy Bright' and 'Richie Marcus' had slowly morphed into household names as the years passed, because like hell Borous was about to dismiss the years of humiliation that the two had subjected him to; him being rejected to prom night, him acing every aspect of Science, and him getting shoved into lockers where he'd remain for around an hour after dismissal until the janitor unlocked him. Four years of memory; consecutively, which, even Klein has to admit, is rather impressive.

"It's either an expansion code in your memory drive or an error in programming," 0'd said. "So, in conclusion, either they just made it possible for you to retain more memory, or you're just going insane. I like my chances on the latter."

But they can't really afford it to be the latter, else the hours they'd poured into crafting the foolproof blueprints for the free-roam simulation technology would be for naught.

"The basic gist of it," 0 had been elaborating, "is that we'll plug you into an encryption machine so that it'll translate your... o, 'memories', into the free-roam simulator - working name. After we finish up translation and transcription and transport, y'know, the works; we'll see if your Richie Marcus and Betsy Bright fever dreams are real."

The lack of stock he has in Borous is both deterring and odd, truly, because 0's previously explained that he can also vaguely recall the hallways of American High (and hold some degree of resentment towards Borous being a 'teacher's pet brown-hound'). "O, well," 0's reply came, "it's a fifty-fifty chance."

The notion of being the only Think Tank to be capable of running this testament to Science truly is an honor for Borous - there's really nothing else that matters to him more than accumulating facts and data. That's why the fact that the Courier had made them promise not to invade what spans beyond Big Mountain had been so jarring to adjust to; simply ignoring a sprawling field filled with test subjects and hard, cold facts? Why, if Borous hadn't gained some modicum of morals beforehand, he would've been all for it; yet he objected to investigate what the un-Lobotomite referred to as the Mojave Wasteland (where the un-Lobotomite had also mentioned Borous' _impeccably_ sterilized spliced creatures had spilled into), out of emotions that a scientist isn't supposed to feel; sentimentality is the downfall of intelligence, after all. He thinks. He's pretty sure. Maybe?

 _He isn't quite sure anymore_.

But what's done has been done; they've barred themselves from exploring an untouched land that contains limitless discovery for the betterment of scientific progress, but when you leave a collection of mentally-questionable floating super-brains in jars trapped in a remote facility for years to come, the thirst of curiosity will simply prevail.

It's a scientist's nature, and what prevails from their thirst, is what they're currently building using dismantled robots and scrap junk that the Courier's collected for them.

I don't know what good this'll do," the un-Lobotomite had admitted when they'd brought in an impressive number of Old World technological and mechanical appliances to the Think Tank. "But if it'll keep your 'Science' hunger in your pants, I'll help."

The Courier is, however, surprisingly more helpful than they'd bargained for during construction of the machine. They had hands, fingers, muscles, and a good sense of tech in general; though Borous likes to think that the Courier didn't do much more work than the rest of his colleagues, he'll confess that the Courier's help is certainly palpable. 

* * *

It's after translation that Dala approaches Borous with the Courier in tow, wrench in hand and perspiration collecting on their brow.

"Dr. Borous," she says, "the teddy bear has erected a test model for you to practice your cognitive functions on. If you'd follow this way, please."

Borous beats them to the testing room and finds a simple, bare-bones skeleton covered only in simple white synthetic material deposited static in the center.

"It's... an almost human meat container!" Borous declares to the Courier, who steps in a few moments later. The latter nods.

"Not really an android, but you have simulated meat in it that should weigh like the real thing. I didn't model or paint exact features, though, but I reckon this is better than a 3D sculpted holographic model."

Borous prods at the figure, and the surface presses around the minor force. "I confess, it has been a certain time since I've controlled a model with a human skeleton and synthetic flesh. What if-though the chances are very, very slim-I fail to recall?"

"It's been some time since we all stepped into a Lob-er, human body, Dr. Borous," Dala remarks smoothly. "Time spent on practice will benefit you."

"So," the Courier peeks up at the hovering brain machine. "Ready to plug in?"

"In the name of Science, I am."

Borous manages to break his leg within ten minutes of controlling the android.

"This should not hurt as much as it does," Borous comments, and the Courier silently notes how the somewhat visible brows of the face furrows without conscious control. "Lobotomite! I perceive that something is wrong with the android's pain receptors!"

The android doesn't have pain receptors, but the Courier doesn't tell him that. Instead, they merely shrug, "pop it back into place and try again."

Borous breaks his arm later on, but there's a twenty-minute time gap between. He takes it as a massive improvement, and three dislocated shoulders, a cracked knee, broken wrist, and two twisted ankles later, the Animology expert finally has gained enough sense to move without any sustained (fatal) injuries.

"I work!" the Borous android proclaims. "Behold, my power!"

"Impressive," Dala replies, immediately crossing over from the control panel to gush over Borous moving about like a relatively normal person. "I, uh, don't suppose you would like to perform a few movements for me?"

But Borous slaps away the mechanical limb that Dala raises to feel the material, and exclaims, "witness my mastery of humane cognitive functions!"

The Courier knows that he'll probably break a few more bones later on, but Borous'll adjust. 

* * *

When they finally power the machine, Klein is the first to pick up his voice regarding the matter.

"The approximate three years that you'll spend in the simulation, provided your memories are actual memories and not just fantasies, will be spent accordingly to our research. Is that understood? Say yes. I've no more patience for this."

"Rest assured, I shall do naught but stuff to further science!" is what the DNA-scrambling doctor replies with, but something's making his biogel squirm. The notion of returning to American High to endure Richie Marcus and Betsy Bright's endless terror isn't the most reassuring, and there's something else that bugs him. He remembers sometime ago when the Courier teaches him what little the latter actually knows about human relations and interactions, and when the Courier mentions paternal figures-'Dads'-his gel stings. Stirs something. Not regret, remorse, or grief; something nearly as unpleasant, though.

But now he has a greater cause to serve, a cause that will prove to be revolutionary to Science.

"You'll be doing a play-by-play of every detail in your memories, so you can collect information of the outside world before the kaboom. Thankfully, you have a lot of them," it's 0 and 8 who are the ones who brief Borous before they activate the contraption. "We made some tampers that allow for vague memories or triggers to be bridged together by what exists of your memories. Should be 100% functioning, the pieces fit enough. Don't know what'll happen if there's repressed memory data, but we're sure you'll be perfectly fine." He doesn't sound sure at all. "Like Klein said, it'll most likely take three to four years for you to complete research-that's as far as your memories go. While you're gone, your current body will remain in vegetative state, but whatever new data arrives, will be downloaded into the mainframe. And three years without _you_ , how about that? Doing us all a favor."

"I comprehend the information," Borous states, though the squeezing feel of his biogel does not cease to exist. "Will that be all?"

"O, yeah, that should be-"

" _There is one more thing_."

Doctors 8 and 0's speeches overlap each other, and a brief silence follows where the three scientists hover with eye monitors glaring at each other.

"8, that's all he needs."

" _Pah_ ," 8 sneers in RobCo termlink code. " _Tell him what Klein told you, O, it's_ not _a hindrance to his duties._ "

"It's 0," 0 snipes back. "And yes, it definitely is! He doesn't need to focus on anything else than trying not to die and to gain data."

"If I may," Borous intercepts, "if this issue is a furtherance to Science! Then I don't see a problem in executing it!"

" _Indirectly, it furthers Science,_ " 8 elaborates.

"My biological ass it does," 0 retorts. "When he's done with his memories, it's not like we'll be needing ours-"

"What's this about gaining our memories?" Borous interrupts again. "Why, but that's a marvelous idea! Further data to be gained from you shall grant more comprehension! It's brilliant, actually, something I would've come up with myself."

" _He doesn't seem to mind,_ " 8 smugly states in code. " _Go ahead, O. Before Klein discovers us dallying about."_

"0," 0 hisses, "and fine. It's an immensely trivial thing, so once you process it, Borous, put it on the back burner."

He pauses for a while, as if trying to find a way to articulate himself. Then he continues, "it's our names. Klein thinks that knowing our old names will help trigger our memory drives, but psychology is a load of biogel waste anyways."

"Names!" Borous exclaims. "Wonderous! Yes, our labels may help us recall our original purpose and how we used to serve! It shall definitely help further Science!"

" _He thinks so too,_ " 8 gloats. " _It seems that you've_ _failed to show me your comprehension of scientific progress once more, O_."

"Easy for you to say, you already know _your_ name," 0 answers. "And it's 0, 8- or should I say, _Parsons_?"

" _Whichever_ ," is 8's nonchalant response as the acoustician Think Tank drifts over to the coils and cables. " _I'm not as sensitive as you are._ "

0 grumbles incoherently and a pause in the conversation follows for a few beats. "Well, he's got me in a bad mood," is what 0 finally says. "So it's best to deactivate pain receptors before we plug you in."

The Courier is there when they begin running diagnostics on the system, arms crossed and eyes following every detail unfolding throughout the scene. An unlit cigarette hangs from their mouth, and when the Think Tank clears from the machine, the Courier surveys their construction.

"And if it doesn't work?" they ask curiously, glaring at the monitor as lines of code begin to appear.

"Nonsense," Borous replies optimistically. "There is an approximate zero chance of this machine not working! After all, the best minds in the universe are the ones who put it together, thus a fault in the matrix is simply unconceivable!"

The Courier frowns. "I'm not worried about the machine. What if your memories turn out to just be... not memories?"

"Unpossible," Borous is quick to object. "I can remember clearly every aspect of American High! The vomit-stained but daily mopped floors, the lockers that smell like rotten food and male deodorant, and the biology labs in which I succeed in absolutely dominating the field!"

The Courier slips out the cigarette and stuffs it into their pocket. "And what about Richie Marcus? Betsy Bright?"

"Irrelevant to my scientific discoveries and research," Borous concludes. "Sure, they may be fond of smoking, and skipping class, and shoving me into the plaza fountain, and locking me in the broom closet, and launching sports appliances my way, but their bullying ways will fail to hinder my progress."

"Awfully bright of you," the Courier commends him with a tiny degree of amusement. "So you're really willing to put yourself through one of the worst periods of your old life?"

Borous doesn't hesitate to say, "in the name of science, of course! And I've done worse." 

* * *

It doesn't take much longer for the programming to boot up and kick in, and the Courier helps to connect the system cables to the ports on the Beastology whiz's current metal exterior.

"Happy travels, Doc," the Courier says as they step off, presumably to the Sink. The room falls short of words for a couple of moments, as the Think Tank hovers in place.

"On the extremely small chance that this does not work, I will be severely disappointed," Klein, once more, is the first to speak. "And angry. Very angry."

It's simply impossible for Borous to fail, and he knows it - he also believes that the others know it as well. His memories are legitimate and treadable, and the machine has been impeccably crafted (his contributions make the most difference, of course).

The rest of the Think Tank don't quite offer anything relevant enough to store inside his brain; not even 'good luck's or goodbyes, just the simplest of remarks, like "please don't forget to observe the un-Lobotomized humans' physiologies" and "if you would, make time to find some Cram and tape around its lid, it might interest you".

0 provides something to remember, by the slightest bit, at least. "If our American High actually exists, then I should be there," he says. "The system picks up the smallest details you find throughout campus, so even if you didn't interact with other students, they'll be loaded into the simulation. I should be there."

Borous agrees that yes, it is actually indubitable for 0 to be present on campus.

"I'm not saying you should try finding me and compromise three years of research," 0 is quick to argue, "but on the case that you have some leeway between activities, I remember having comic books. Marvel, specifically, I think. Just a couple of pointers."

"To further Science, I shall comply!" Borous states. "As Doctor Borous, it will be quite easy to find leeway in order to research our ancient identities amongst revered research, rest assured!"

"Gee, such a pal," comes 0's sardonic drawl, and the robotics expert turns to the control panel, where 8 stands by, flipping switches and monitoring any changes. As if it's just another uninteresting work day, Doctor Dala and Klein have both left the premises of the simulator, and excepting a few throwaway glances, they wholly ignore the process as they tinker away in their stations. It is nothing too evolutionary, though; it's not like this is the most unachievable breakthrough to ever be conceived. The purpose interests them, but until it's reached, it shouldn't concern them as much.

0 promptly joins 8 at the control board, jotting away at the assortment of switches and buttons.

"Terminate pain receptors, Borous."

Like the right-minded brain he is, it's no wonder that Borous simply does not comply.


End file.
